by D. J. Palmer
“But I was specific,” Zach said, trying not to groan. “I filled out the paperwork myself.”
“The lab tech must have entered it wrong,” Lucy explained. “That’s why the old system was better. It cut down on these sorts of errors.”
“It happens a lot?” Zach asked.
“From time to time, yes,” Dr. Abruzzo said.
“This was one really bad time for it to happen, Lucy.”
There was nothing more for them to say. The damage was done. Now Zach had the difficult task of breaking the news to the parents.
* * *
“WHAT DO you mean, you have to redo the procedure?” Carl Gerard, veins throbbing at his temples, jaw firmly set, looked ready to reach across the cluttered desk to put his fist through Zach’s teeth.
His clear intention was a far cry from the confusing exchange Zach had had with Becky in the hallway outside his office moments ago while they were awaiting Carl’s arrival. She had taken hold of his hand, leaned in close so that he could smell her perfume, whatever that scent was, and whispered in his ear, “Thank you for all you’re doing for us, for Meghan. You’re a godsend, Zach Fisher.”
For a second there, Zach had thought she was going to try to kiss him. Of course, he would have resisted. Even as it was, he was shocked into near paralysis. Her hair was free from the ponytail she often wore, flowing like a golden waterfall across her slender shoulders. She wore a formfitting white blouse with French cuffs and dark slacks. He saw the way she looked at him. It was not the normal doctor-parent interaction he had had thousands of times.
He thought It would be so easy to fall for her charms. She was seductive, incredibly alluring, and he was lonely. But what was she really all about? After all this time, he still wasn’t sure. Jill Mendoza had made it a point to keep in touch with Zach ever since he’d sent her that somewhat biting email about DCF’s medical incompetence. She told him about the alternative placement option for Meghan that had fallen through because Becky threatened to sue anyone who took in her daughter.
“Does that sound like a mother with her child’s best interest at heart?” Mendoza wrote in her email. She also mentioned the pattern of Meghan getting sick whenever Becky came to visit. Zach did not have to cast a wide net to catch a lot of doubt. A crazy thought came to him about the ruined sample. If Becky Gerard is willing to use her feminine allure to charm doctors, is it possible she used it on some guileless lab tech?
More than possible, Zach thought.
“What do we do now?” Becky said, her voice strained.
“Like I said, we have to redo the biopsy.”
“No,” Carl said defiantly.
Becky snapped her head around to appraise him harshly. “What did you just say?” Her voice shook with anger.
“I … said … no!”
“You can’t,” she said. “I’m her mother.”
“And I’m her father!” Carl stood. “I have rights, too. And I say enough. Enough of this! Enough tests. Enough procedures. Enough. Enough. Enough! I’ll make sure Jill Mendoza refuses to honor any request, including if it comes from Meghan.”
Carl slammed his fist into a towering pile of Zach’s research papers.
“You and you,” Carl said, pointing an accusatory finger first at Becky and then at Zach, “are in on this together. That’s what I think. Are you screwing my wife?”
Zach’s expression widened with surprise. “What?”
“Careful with her,” Carl said, sneering. “She knows how to get what she wants.”
“Carl! How dare you!” Becky snapped.
“Dr. Nash has been right all along,” Carl said. He paced the room, not minding the stack of papers he tipped over with his foot. “I should have listened from the start. I should have … I should have paid more attention.”
“Carl, calm down right now,” Becky said. “We’re going to redo the biopsy, and we’ll prove that Meghan has this condition. It’s that simple.”
Carl looked strangely calm. “I see it now,” he said, his voice turning softer. “So clearly. I mean I’ve always known, but now, now I have no doubt. It’s you, Becky. You’re the problem. I don’t know how you’ve gotten inside Meghan’s head the way you have. I don’t know why. But everywhere you go, bad things happen when it comes to our daughter. I, for one, am done.”
“That’s crazy talk, and you know it,” Becky said.
“I’m not subjecting Meghan to any more torture,” Carl said flatly. He put on his sport coat. “I’m not doing it.”
Becky rose from her seat and followed Carl to the door. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
Carl turned and looked back, his eyes haunted, his face showing the strain of years of difficulty, of all he’d endured, all he’d lost. “You want this procedure done again for you, Becky,” Carl said. “Not for Meghan, but for you, and for Cora, and Sammy, and whatever shit you’ve carried around all these years. It’s poisoned you. It’s made you not right in the head. You need help. But I can’t be that person anymore, because I don’t believe you. I don’t honestly believe Meghan is sick at all.”
“You saw her the other day,” Becky said, sounding panicked.
“What I saw was a girl acting sick, like Dr. Nash explained. They examined her and found no physical cause for her distress. Nothing to explain it! Whatever is wrong with you, you’re passing it on to our daughter, and I won’t stand by and watch it happen. I won’t. I’m done, Becky. I’m done with this whole charade.”
“It’s not a charade,” Becky said. “Meghan has mito, and Dr. Fisher can prove it.”
“Dr. Fisher,” Carl bellowed, “is as fucked up as you are!” His face contorted with fury. Zach tensed, ready to defend himself if need be, but Carl stood his ground. “His kid died from this disease, and he’s trying to make it right. Don’t you get it, Becky? You may think you’re playing him, but he’s playing you. He’s playing us all. He’s as deluded as you are.” Carl’s arms fell limply to his sides. His head bowed.
“What are you going to do, Carl?”
“Do? I’m going to talk to my lawyer—and I don’t mean our lawyer, Becky.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there is no way I’m going to let you cut open my daughter again.”
CHAPTER 36
BECKY
Becky was amazed, and more than a little sad, to discover that everything she needed, the essentials to survive, could fit into a single suitcase. Her house—this palatial, often overwhelming abode, with its too many rooms filled with oversize furniture, shelves stocked with knickknacks, walls graced with photos and paintings—all of it she now saw as an illusion. It was a cold veneer applied to cover cracks in a marriage that had broken open the day Sammy died and was never properly repaired.
Meghan’s illness may have been the tipping point, but Sammy was the beginning of the end for her marriage. Becky was now ready to take her life in a new direction, one without Carl, or this house, or the memories it contained. The hard part would be leaving her daughter’s belongings behind because that was Becky’s center, her grounding.
In Meghan’s room, Becky rifled through the closet, searching for clothing to take to White, hoping to get approval to give them to Meghan, when she noticed a freestanding bookshelf pressed up against a wall, partially hidden by a colorful array of hanging clothes. It was an odd sight, Becky thought, to keep a bookshelf tucked inside a closet, but even stranger to see the unit was turned around so that the shelves were up against the wall.
Becky ducked low to avoid the tangle of clothes overhead and spun the bookshelf around. The unit was lightweight, easy to move, but the dark closet made it difficult to see the contents of those shelves. Using the flashlight built into her phone, Becky illuminated a fifth of vodka and two unopened bottles of wine. There was also a wooden box, held shut with a clasp. Becky eyed the alcohol, dumbfounded. She had no idea Meghan had been drinking. Maybe it was the stress of her sickness, pressure from her peer
group, or the strain in her and Carl’s marriage. Whatever the reason, Becky blamed herself. She should have been more attentive, more aware. As a teenager, Becky had done the same—stolen from the liquor cabinet and hid her boozing from Cora, who probably would not have noticed if she had kept a bottle on her dresser.
Becky opened the box and peered inside, expecting to see drug paraphernalia. Relieved to find only papers and trinkets, she sighed aloud and spun the bookshelf back around, leaving the items undisturbed as though they were part of an archeological find. It was a shock to discover her daughter’s secret hiding place, but Becky did not dwell on it for long. She had more pressing matters to address, namely, leaving her husband and her home for good. Everybody has secrets, Becky thought as she backed out of the closet.
Becky carried her suitcase downstairs. Filled with slacks, blouses, undergarments, toiletries, and probably too many pairs of shoes, it weighed a good deal more than she’d anticipated. She had made a reservation at a nice hotel in Boston, not far from White Memorial, where she could be alone with her thoughts and regrets.
She did not want to have a failed marriage, but she could not abide Carl’s hard-line approach, his doubts, or his accusations. He had not returned home after storming out of Dr. Fisher’s office. His only communication had been a cold text informing her that he’d be working late and would probably crash on the sofa in his office, something he had done often over the last few years. In response, Becky had left him a note on the kitchen counter saying only that she was staying at the Copley Plaza Hotel for a few days, doing some soul searching. If Carl did not get that “soul searching” was a euphemism for irreconcilable differences, that was his problem.
Carl might think he had all the power, the best lawyer, the strongest case, but Becky was not about to keel over in a fetal position, or hide out in her hotel room, sipping Sprite Zero. She had someone to see, an appointment she had made, someone to tip the balance of power in her favor.
* * *
JAVA DU Jour was a coffee shop equidistant from White Memorial and Becky’s hotel. Becky found a table facing the door and waited for Kelly London to arrive. At five past the hour, Kelly came breezing in. She scanned the crowd for Becky, who saw her first, stood, and waved to get her attention. Kelly looked put together as always, with a blazer, a dressy blouse unbuttoned to an alluring degree, and hip-hugging gray slacks. If they weren’t potential adversaries, if Kelly did not hold tremendous sway over Meghan’s fate, the two women might have hugged briefly instead of shaking hands, which they did with a degree of formality.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Becky said.
“You made it sound important.”
They ordered lattes at the counter and returned to the table Becky had saved with her coat. The spring was getting warmer, and soon summer would be here, but this would be a summer like no other. Assuming Meghan was sprung from the hospital like a prisoner making bail, there’d be new issues to address. Where would Meghan live? How would she and Carl split time? How could Becky be sure Carl would look after Meghan the way she would? Her daughter’s health would complicate the already complex dynamics of divorce. But those were questions for another time. Step one in Becky’s grand plan was to get Meghan out of White, which meant getting the biopsy redone against her father’s wishes.
Becky spent fifteen minutes catching Kelly up on recent events, including the biopsy mishap, Carl’s war declaration, and her decision to leave him.
“I’m deeply sorry,” Kelly said, sounding genuinely empathetic. It was strange for Becky to confide in someone so young, who could relate to her struggles perhaps only in terms of a jilted boyfriend, who knew nothing of the profound, soul-seismic jostling of ending a long marriage.
“I need your help,” Becky said.
“With what?”
“We have to get Judge Trainer to mandate a second biopsy.”
A glint in Kelly’s eyes dimmed, confirming Becky’s fear that it would not be a simple request of the court. “It’ll require an evidentiary hearing in open court with counsel for all parties and witnesses,” Kelly said.
“Then call for it. We need it, and we need it now.”
“Judge Trainer will be concerned for Meghan’s emotional welfare. From what you described, her needle phobia is quite intense.”
“It is,” Becky said. “But if I don’t prove she has mito, I might lose her.”
Becky’s breath clogged as tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them with the palms of her hands, and Kelly gave Becky a napkin to dab away the moisture still clinging to the corners.
“I’m sorry,” Becky said, her voice quaking. “It’s so hard. It’s all been so hard. It’s been going on and on and there’s no end in sight.”
Sympathy flooded Kelly’s innocent blue eyes.
“It kills you as a parent,” Becky said, “when your child is hurting and you can’t do anything to make it better. It absolutely crushes you. You feel … so horribly guilty, no better word for it. And Carl, how does he live with himself?” Becky’s expression soured. “All those mornings when Meghan didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, and he just brushed it off as nothing. He’d tell her she was lazy, but she’d insist it wasn’t in her head, and he didn’t listen. He’s still not listening.
“I’m looking for an answer, Kelly. When I’m in the waiting room, headed for the next appointment, and I see all those kids with their worried parents, I think Some of those kids aren’t going to make it. Some of them won’t get the help they need. But not us. We’re going to figure this thing out. That’s what I tell myself, because I have to get the answer. That’s my only job.”
“And my job is to help the judge make the best decision for Meghan,” Kelly said.
“She needs to be with her family … or what’s left of us. She needs to get out of White.”
“It’s frustrating. I get it,” Kelly said.
“You might look at us, our big house and nice car, and think we have it all together, but I’ll tell you, money and connections don’t shield you from heartbreak,” Becky said. “I need your help desperately. Don’t let Carl get in the way.”
Kelly peeled her gaze from Becky, and seemed momentarily lost in thought. “When you opened your front door and saw me for the first time,” she said, now looking Becky in the eyes, “I knew what you were thinking: This girl is too young, too inexperienced, to be of any help.”
Becky laughed, embarrassed for having been so transparent. “You got me,” Becky said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “So tell me, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-seven,” Kelly said. “I have student loans I’ll probably never be able to repay on my salary. I drive a ten-year-old car that’s on its last axle. I bought a gym membership instead of cable. My mom was a pill-popping drug addict who died of an overdose five years ago, and I don’t know who my father is. I have no family to lean on. I won’t hook up with a guy just to make my life easier, and I don’t trust men easily, for reasons we don’t have to get into. I’m telling you all of this just so you know that on the outside, I may seem a certain way, that you may judge me as a certain type—the pretty, outgoing, carefree girl—but I’m not that at all. I’m struggling in my own right, with my own demons, so I get the heartache and pain more than you know.”
Becky could not help but think of her own hardscrabble upbringing. She had done to Kelly what so many people did to her: she had judged her without getting to know her, or the facts around her circumstances, first.
“I’m sorry,” Becky said. “We have a lot in common, you and I.”
“I suspect we do,” Kelly said.
“Will you help me?” Becky asked.
She reached across the table and touched Kelly’s hand. Countless times, Becky had touched a doctor on the arm or hand just to manipulate him, but this time it was different. This time Becky was seeking a deeper connection.
She looked into Kelly’s eyes, pleading. “Please help me,” Becky said.
“
I’ll go to Judge Trainer, we’ll get that hearing,” Kelly said. “And we’ll get that biopsy done.”
CHAPTER 37
ZACH
It was never a good sign to get an email from Knox Singer’s personal assistant at any time of the day, but Zach found it especially ominous to receive one first thing in the morning. The email invited him to an emergency meeting in the conference room adjacent to Singer’s palatial office. It would seem the situation with Meghan Gerard was reaching a boiling point, fueled in part by the omnipresent media coverage.
It had not been a good night for Zach. He had had the dream again, but this time it was different. Instead of a strong wind blowing Will to dust, there was no wind at all, leaving Zach’s fingers outstretched, inches away from touching his boy, inches that were actually miles—infinity, really—because he was stuck in the limbo of grief.
When Zach arrived, Knox Singer and Amanda Nash were already seated, talking together. There was an empty chair that would have been occupied by Dr. Peter Levine if only fate had taken a different turn. Questions took the place of his presence at the table. How did a seemingly healthy man die so suddenly and inexplicably? The medical examiner said the cause of death was cardiac arrest, but what had caused his heart to stop beating? So far, toxicology had turned up nothing.
The best guess was death from ventricular fibrillation—a disturbance in the heart’s electrical system whereby the lower chambers quiver and the heart can’t pump any blood, causing cardiac arrest. A sizable portion of White’s cardiac patients get admitted due to some type of arrhythmia, and while the condition is common, it’s far from fatal. Most of the fatal cases occur in association with other heart conditions, like valve problems, blockages, or coronary heart disease.
An autopsy of a young, seemingly healthy person who had died from the condition would most likely reveal other, congenital heart problems, ranging from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (thickened heart) to unusual branching of the coronary arteries coming off the aorta. Such was not the case with Dr. Levine. His heart was perfectly normal, leaving doctors to speculate that an underlying genetic problem had caused his untimely death.